


By Firelight

by Goddess_of_the_Night, KittieHill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bottom John Watson, Caring John, Clothed Frottage, Coming In Pants, Condoms, Drinking Games, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Gets Sexualized, Hand Jobs, In a Fort, Inexperienced Sherlock, Light Nipple Play, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple times, Naked Cuddling, Never Have I Ever, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Power Outage, Premature Ejaculation, Sentiment, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Smut, Snow Storm, Sweetness, Tender Sex, Top Sherlock, True Love, Vulnerable Sherlock, and failed, cuddling for warmth, kind of, safe sex, we tried not to make it too soppy and romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-08-23 17:31:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8336587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddess_of_the_Night/pseuds/Goddess_of_the_Night, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: The power goes out and the sun goes down while a snow storm rages outside. They not only need to conserve body heat, but John has to find a way to keep the great Sherlock Holmes entertained somehow. Desperate times, and all that...**John moves back imperceptibly before urging, still in a hushed tone, “It’s your turn again.”Sherlock’s eyes shoot up to John’s in fear. He’s so scared of ruining things, going too far, asking for too much.“Whatever it is, nothing needs to happen,” John reminds him gently.Be that as it may, Sherlock can only think of one thing: “Never have I ever kissed the same person twice.”John smirks confidently, “I really hope you don’t plan to keep count,” he goads before closing the space between them once more.**





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Second co-op work between Kittie and myself. I had this idea for the longest time, and she was kind enough to take it on and help me out with it since I found myself at a bit of a stalemate.
> 
> We hope you enjoy a bit of a longer piece!

They trudge back into their flat, shivering from the cold.

"I can't feel my ears," Sherlock complains, placing his now gloveless cold hands over his even colder ears for some semblance of warmth.

"I can't feel my face," John counters, words coming out nearly slurred through his numb lips.

They take off their snow-covered coats and gear. The snow storm had come in suddenly, unexpected as they were working on their most recent (outdoor) case. They were close to being done, but they still found themselves out in the elements for an hour more before Sherlock would allow them to leave.

"Get out of those clothes and into some warm, dry ones," John orders Sherlock, moving towards his own room to do the same while ignoring the indignant grunt he receives in reply.

When John enters his room, he discovers that the power has gone out with the storm when he tries to turn on his light. That's alright, it's only one in the afternoon, so he figures it'll be back on before night falls. Surely.

"Power's out," John informs Sherlock when he goes back downstairs in his dry clothes. He's still cold, but it's a start.

"Mmm," Sherlock hums absentmindedly from the sofa where he's looking at his laptop.

John rolls his eyes as he walks over to the fireplace, appeased to notice that Sherlock at least changed into dry clothes as he asked. He notes that they don't have much fire wood, but it should last for a few hours until the power comes back on.

Once he's gotten the fire going, he stands while rubbing his hands together to get the dirt and traces of wood off of them. He turns to Sherlock, "Come sit by the fire," he says before moving their chairs closer to the hearth.

When he rights himself again, he notices that Sherlock hasn't moved. With a heavy sigh, he walks over to the younger man and lifts his computer from his lap unceremoniously.

"John!" Sherlock scolds with a defiant crease to his brow.

John doesn't even say anything, merely walks the computer to Sherlock's chair before turning to face him with a pointed look.

Sherlock huffs as he stands, glaring at John as he walks to him and grabs the laptop from his hands roughly. He sits down in his chair petulantly.

"I am _not_ a child," he tells John with a glare, looking and sounding remarkably like one at the moment.

The corner of John's mouth lifts, "Of course you're not," he sarcastically placates.

Sherlock's glare intensifies as John walks over to the desk and grabs his Nook before sitting in his own chair.

The following hours pass silently as Sherlock types away on both computer and phone, and John reads and stokes the fire as necessary.

When the sun begins to fade (what little was making it through the storm that's still raging), John stands to light some candles, a bit unnerved now that the power isn't back on. He turns the switch on the desk lamp as a guide for them to know when it returns.

"Will you grab my chargers while you're up?" Sherlock asks, uncharacteristically polite.

"The power is still out," John tells him, not surprised that he hasn't noticed.

"So?" He asks, clearly not thinking.

"Figure it out, genius," John needles him after lighting the candles and then moving back to the fire.

"Damn!" He curses after nearly a full minute of silence.

"There it is," John smiles.

"I didn't plan...didn't think...both my phone and laptop are practically dead."

"Unsurprising," he says, standing from the fireplace yet again to reclaim his chair, "We're going to need to check Mrs. Hudson's flat for more wood soon."

Sherlock ignores the statement, instead demanding: "Let me use your laptop."

"No; it wasn't fully charged when I turned it off and you know my battery holds a charge for shit."

Sherlock growls because he knows John is right, "Your phone, then."

"No. Also not fully charged, but I'd like to be able to have _something_ to call Emergency Services with if necessary."

"What are you planning on calling the Emergency Services for?" Sherlock scoffs.

"I'm about to be trapped in an electricity-free flat with a bored Sherlock Holmes; have you _met_ you?"

He huffs indignantly, "I'm not _that_ bad."

"Go check Mrs. Hudson's flat for wood," John orders, but Sherlock turns away the key that John produces from his pocket. Mrs. Hudson has gone to visit her sister and she always leaves him (never Sherlock) with a key in case of emergency.

"I'll pick the lock; at least that should entertain me."

"By what?" John laughs, "Candle light?"

"Precisely," he nods seriously before standing.

John's face takes on a resigned look that clearly states that he should have seen that coming.

Sherlock disappears downstairs and John returns to reading his Nook - finally activating the backlight. John looks up again about ten minutes later when Sherlock bursts back into the flat with empty hands and a scowling face.

"Don't tell me she has no firewood," John beseeches, true worry seeping in for the first time.

"She has no firewood," Sherlock parrot's back grumpily, flopping back into his chair gracelessly, "So I'm soon to be bored _and_ cold."

"Oh, Jesus," John moans and covers his face with his left hand.

"Entertain me," Sherlock demands.

John stares at him again, reflecting on how much quicker his petulance set in than he had originally calculated, "I'm reading," he tells him, motioning with his Nook.

"It's electronic - its battery will die."

"Not for a few weeks yet."

Sherlock looks extremely confused, "What?"

John smirks, "It's designed for battery efficiency; since it's just a reader with e-ink and not a smart device, a charge lasts for weeks."

Sherlock's confusion has given way to intrigue, "Is that why you prefer it?"

"I wouldn't say I prefer it - there's still no comparison for a new book smell and flipping the pages - but sometimes I want to read a thousand-page Stephen King novel without carrying all 1,000 pages around."

Sherlock's eyes flit around and his hands rest in a thinking pose against his lips for only a minute before he breathes in loudly suddenly, "Okay, bored again. Entertain me," he demands once more.

John instead ignores Sherlock as the man taps and huffs in boredom. The book isn’t that interesting but it’s a far better choice than watching Sherlock get himself into a frenzy.

“I have scotch,” Sherlock says without warning, “that’ll keep us warm.”

“Might feel it but it’s actually the opposite,” John explains, looking above his tablet, “You should know that as a chemist.”

“But I’m bored, John. _Dangerously_ bored,” Sherlock sighs and then stands up, “I’m going to find things to burn.”

“Nope,” John insists, sighing and getting up, “You’d have burnt my stuff.”

“Well, yes…your things are considerably cheaper than my own,” Sherlock says as though John is an idiot, “We’re going to freeze due to your stubbornness, I hope you realize.”

John rubs at his face before striding into Sherlock’s bedroom, picking up the bedding from the king-sized bed and bringing it back to the living room. Upon dumping it at Sherlock’s feet, John does the same with his own bedroom and the airing cupboard, finding every padded or warm item possible to build a makeshift den in the living room. Once returned to Sherlock’s side, John begins organising the fabrics until they have created an almost full-sized fort in the living room which can be climbed inside and closed up around them to conserve heat.

“I should have brought food,” John mumbles, “Saves us having to go outside when it starts getting colder.”

“I’ll order,” Sherlock insists and then smiles, “and I’ll ask them to bring burnable materials. I’ll call Chin from the Golden Dragon; he still owes me.”

John nods and then climbs out of their little nest to get the scotch and two tumblers. Sherlock has already contacted the takeaway and promised a large tip if they bring food and flammable materials within the hour.

“Alright,” John says, placing the scotch and tumblers on the floor between them, back in their den.

“Alright what?” Sherlock asks, looking apprehensively at the glassware that separates them.

“You’re the one who wanted to drink scotch to warm up,” John reminds him.

Sherlock shifts slightly, uneasy, “Well, yes, but…”

“But what?” John asks, slightly exasperated. He was only trying to do what Sherlock had suggested; keep him _occupied_ , for fuck’s sake.

“We just...drink it?” Sherlock asks. He’s never been a big drinker - obviously drugs were his go-to reality suspender of choice - but he has done it, typically outside of his living space, though.

John laughs, “Well, we can play a drinking game if you’d like to make it more entertaining.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow in consideration, “What type of drinking game?”

John thinks, leaning back against his chair that’s helping support the roof of their hideout, “There’s lots of types, some better than others.”

“Like?” Sherlock presses in annoyance, leaning back against his own chair petulantly.

“Truth or dare? Kings? Never have I ever? Spin the bottle?” He ends with what can only be classified as a good-natured leer. The scandalized look on Sherlock’s face makes the joke completely worth it, and John can’t help the laugh that escapes.

“John!” Sherlock scolds with a pout. He _hates_ it when John uses his few shortcomings for his own entertainment purposes.

“I’m sorry,” he says through a few tears before focusing on his breathing to calm down again, “Any of those sound interesting?” he asks kindly once the laughter has subsided.

“What is ‘Kings’ and ‘Never have I ever’?”

“‘Kings’ is a card game, extremely simple: each card denomination has a specific rule or task you and/or I would have to do. ‘Never have I ever’ has us taking turns saying things that we have never done before; if one of us _has_ done it, though, the person who’s done it takes a drink.”

“That one,” Sherlock insists with a snooty roll of his eyes, “if we must. I can at least find some embarrassing anecdotes for the next time you drag me out for one of your football and perving events with Lestrade.”

“Okay,” John smiles, ‘ _This is going to be fun’_  he thinks as he fills their glasses and begins the game, “I’ll start simple. Never have I ever stored a severed arm in the bread bin.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, suddenly aware of how dangerous this game could be. Lifting his glass cautiously he takes a drink and then huffs, “Honestly, it’s not like it’s an everyday occurrence.”

John shrugs and then gestures to Sherlock, “Your turn. What do you think I’ve done that you haven’t?”

Considering for a short moment, Sherlock smirks, “Never have I ever been to war.”

“That’s too easy!” John grumbles, taking a long drink, “Never have I ever had dinner with a member of the Royal family.”

“Oh for --” Sherlock complains and takes a drink, “It was a simple evening with Princess Anne. She’s a fascinating woman, you know.”

“Sherlock fancies Princess Anne,” John began singing, high pitched and giddy, “Did you love her? Did you snog her?”

“What?” Sherlock asks, his eyebrows meeting in the middle as he looks horrified, “John. Not only is she of Royal birth, she is also considerably older than me. And female.”

“Oh,” John stops speaking, blinking rapidly and then downing his scotch, “So…you’re gay then?”

Sherlock lets his face fall back into his usual mask of neutrality as he realises he let too much slip, and he ignores the question before topping up John’s glass, “Never have I ever gone fishing.”

John drinks deep, feeling the heat of the alcohol warming him from the inside. This is a bad idea. They shouldn’t be drinking whilst the temperature gets lower, but he has started something now, something which has obviously caught Sherlock’s attention.

The rounds continue, each man drinking deep and filling up their glasses until the bottle is half empty and the men become rather tipsy and loose lipped. They stop for a break to eat and then burn the carriers and most of the extra cardboard which the delivery driver had given them, but it doesn’t last long before the room is colder than usual. The brief heat simply serving to make everything seem much colder than it previously was.

Wrapping a duvet around himself, Sherlock peeks out of his comfortable burrito for his next round.

“Never have I ever,” Sherlock slurs, his eyes slightly glazed, “put my finger in another person’s anus.”

John laughs, clutching his stomach as he struggles to stay upright, “That’s part of my job, you idiot.”

“Oh. Of course. How disgusting,” Sherlock grimaces, “During an intimate encounter, then.”

“Is it that surprising? Some people like that,” John scoffs before he drinks and settles back on the makeshift bed, piling the blankets on top of himself and shivering.

“Do they?” Sherlock asks, genuinely puzzled, “Why?”

“Why?” John responds with a shake of his head, “Because it feels nice. You’ve never done it?”

Sherlock’s cheeks suddenly bloom with a blotch of colour before he gives a half shrug, “When am I to have ever attempted it? I’ve never actually _been_ with anyone, as you well know.”

John flounders for just a moment, “No, I didn’t actually _know that_ until right now. I thought Mycroft was just taking the piss with you since you refused to wear pants in Buckingham Fucking Palace.”

Sherlock blushes, “Oh,” perturbed that he, yet again, gave away more information than necessary. Alcohol is stupid.

John clears his throat in preparation for the question he knows he just has to ask, “Okay, completely normal, non-shocking virginity aside, you’ve never even done it to yourself? Alone?”

“John!” Sherlock sounds like the most scandalized person in the entire world.

“What?” John smiles through a paradoxical mix of amusement and embarrassment, “Everybody masturbates, Sherlock!”

“No. They don’t,” he says resolutely, drinking from his nearly-empty tumbler while staring at the carpet for something else to do. When he raises his eyes again nearly a minute later, he finds John simply staring at him open-mouthed, “What?” He adds testily.

“You...you don’t…” John stutters and then clears his throat again, “Don’t _ever_?”

“Why is that so incredibly difficult for your pea-sized brain to comprehend? You’re supposed to be a doctor!”

“And as a doctor, I know that human bodies _need_ sexual release, if not with someone else than of your own free will,” he states as logically as he can through the haze of alcohol. Following Sherlock’s scientific lead actually helps his own level of embarrassment come down to a more manageable level.

“My body takes care of itself on its own.”

John has to think about this statement for a humiliatingly impressive length of time before his Doctor Brain can take control back over from the Sea of Scotch, “You mean wet dreams.”

“I mean night emissions, yes,” Sherlock is glaring at him challengingly. He didn’t think he had a problem with sex until he started talking about it with John, and now he can’t seem to bring himself to stop thinking about how knowledgeable John is about sex; how John could help him collect data on the subject, if only he could gauge whether John was about to die from laughing so hard at his best friend’s lack of experience first.

John easily reads the challenge in Sherlock’s eyes because, even inebriated as he is, he’s very good at reading other people’s emotions. He’s also very good at reading _Sherlock’s_ face specifically, with as much time as he spends looking at it. So he instinctively knows how delicate the situation is.

John schools his face into a non-threatening, open, accepting curiosity, “Sherlock,” he starts gently, “what _have_ you done?”

Sherlock does _not_ want John to know the extent of how little he has done; he wants John to feel comfortable touching him and kissing him, and if John knows how he’s never really done any of those things…

Sherlock looks away from John and shakes his head, denying him an answer as he drains the rest of his glass.

“Okay,” John placates simply, not pushing him, “how about we go back to the game, then?”

“More alcohol?” Sherlock asks with distaste, feeling an intense dislike for his new-found enemy that loosens his tongue too far.

“No,” John chuckles as he shakes his head, “I think half a bottle is quite enough for tonight, especially in this cold. Just words and actions.”

“ _Actions_?” Sherlock chokes out, heart rate speeding up of its own volition.

“Give me a moment to think this through, yeah?” John requests, and they fall silent.

John stays silent long enough that Sherlock begins getting antsy, so he voluntarily removes the scotch and tumblers from the fort. When he returns - thankful for the warmth inside of it that’s gathered from their body heat - John is looking at him calmly, but with a purpose.

Sherlock swallows thickly and sits down, trying not to look as nervous as he feels.

“Ready?” John asks, still in a reassuring fashion that is so second-nature to the doctor. God, how he can genuinely care for others this much boggles Sherlock’s brilliant mind.

Sherlock can only nod, not trusting his voice.

“We stick with ‘Never have I ever’ statements since that’s what we’re comfortable with. If one of us says something that one of us has done, the one who _has_ can offer their experience to the other. It by no means needs to be offered or accepted if either person is uncomfortable. And if you haven’t done it, you just shake your head.”

Sherlock thinks but can’t quite grasp it; he’s stuck on the fact that it sounds like John is offering to help him experiment sexually in whatever way he can, “Example,” he orders.

John snorts, looking relieved that Sherlock hasn’t simply run screaming straight away, “Okay, never have I ever held another man’s hand romantically.”

“How does one hold a hand _romantically_?” Sherlock sneers.

“With a romantic, intimate intent,” he amends with a roll of his eyes.

Sherlock shakes his head to the statement, letting John know he hasn’t.

“Well, I have. Would you like me to show you?”

 _‘It’s a trap,’_ Sherlock’s brain supplies, _‘it must be.’_ “Yes,” he says aloud anyway.

John moves to sit next to Sherlock, the easier to interlace their fingers properly. John looks down as he slowly takes Sherlock’s right hand in his left, gently weaving their digits together. When he looks up at Sherlock’s face, he finds the other man entranced by their joining with an odd, soft look on his face. Unconsciously, John’s thumb rubs softly over Sherlock’s in reassurance, and Sherlock’s eyes fly up to his in wonderment.

“Your turn,” John whispers, gaze still locked on the intense eyes of his genius.

Sherlock stutters for a moment and then whispers, “Never have I ever been romantically embraced.”

“You’ve never had a cuddle?” John asks unbelieving.

Sherlock blushes pink to his ears and bristles visibly, “Obviously I’ve been embraced by my family…although, not for a long time. And not consensually. Mrs. Hudson occasionally wraps her arms around me but I don’t count that as a sexual or romantic embrace.”

John smirks, “Well, you never know with Mrs. Hudson.”

This raises a shy smile from Sherlock who maintains an open posture, waiting for John’s reaction. It comes a moment later when John separates their hands (leaving Sherlock bereft for a moment) and wraps his arms around the taller man’s body instead. Sherlock leans in, enjoying the sensation and the scent of John right in the crook of his neck where Sherlock’s nose is currently residing. Sherlock takes a sneaky inhale, storing the aroma in his mind palace before John pulls away with a bright smile.

John fidgets and surprises Sherlock with his next go, “Never have I ever kissed a man.”

Sherlock’s brain races to keep up. He _has_ kissed a man; never for a romantic or sexual reason, but sometimes using his looks was the best way to find out information on cases. Not that Sherlock would like to admit that, of course…

“Sherlock?” John asks, concerned, “Shit, did I go too far?”

“No,” Sherlock mumbles, looking down shyly, “I’m just not sure how to word my answer.”

John allows his brows to bunch together and takes Sherlock’s hand again. Without being prompted, almost like John _wants_ to do it rather than being forced by this stupid, ridiculous, and demeaning game they’re playing.

“Word it however is best,” John answers cautiously, looking down at their clasped hands and then up to Sherlock’s flushed face.

“I have...done that,” Sherlock grimaces, “A long time ago. However it wasn’t for romantic reasons.”

John stills, his mind a flurry of activity, “Right. I see,” he says before adding, “actually no, I don’t.”

“It was for a case,” Sherlock admits, a flash of excitement in his eyes as he remembers the details, “It was a delightful case: a strangling with a staging of the body…I had to find out what the window cleaner knew and I deduced that the man was attracted to me and…”

“Sherlock,” John interrupts with a frown, “bit not good.”

“Oh,” Sherlock shuts his mouth with a click.

John inhales deeply and looks at one of the blankets separating them from the cold room. He can almost see his breath it’s so bloody cold, “Have you ever had a romantic kiss?” He clarifies.

“No,” Sherlock whispers, looking bashful, “I’ve never been interested before...well...until recently.”

John lets the words wash over him before he steadies himself internally to ask, “Would you like me to show you?”

Again, Sherlock merely nods shyly, eyes dropping to John’s lips.

John lets his hand cup Sherlock’s sharp jawline, his thumb stroking across Sherlock’s cheekbone before he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to Sherlock’s lips. It’s barely a touch, more of a whisper of skin on skin, but it sends electric pulses through both men who groan simultaneously. John tilts Sherlock’s head further back, using the position to let his tongue slick across the seam of Sherlock’s plump lips, coaxing them open and finally, _finally_ tasting Sherlock’s mouth. With a quiet moan of disappointment, John pulls back after a few short moments, but he can’t help but place a small peck to the lips in apology as he moves away.

“There now,” John whispers, still too close to the other man’s face, eyes tracing his features and continuously landing on the bow of Sherlock’s lips in wanting, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Sherlock merely shakes his head, silently agreeing that it was actually quite pleasant.

John moves back imperceptibly before urging, still in a hushed tone, “It’s your turn again.”

Sherlock’s eyes shoot up to John’s in fear. He’s so scared of ruining things, going too far, asking for too much.

“Whatever it is, nothing _needs_ to happen,” John reminds him gently.

Be that as it may, Sherlock can only think of one thing: “Never have I ever kissed the same person twice.”

John smirks confidently, “I really hope you don’t plan to keep count,” he goads before closing the space between them once more. After a few minutes, John growls in frustration at the awkward angle of the kiss before he pulls back.

“John…” Sherlock starts in a panic, thinking that he’s done something wrong, but he’s struck dumb as John moves.

John swings his right leg over Sherlock’s lap so he’s kneeling above the other man without touching. Without another word, John buries his hands in Sherlock’s curls before bringing his mouth down to the younger man’s hungrily. The new angle gives them both better access to the other’s mouth, and they relish in it.

When Sherlock lifts his hands to hesitantly land on John’s hips, the older man breaks away. John sits on Sherlock’s lap, not quite in the right position for them to feel the other’s arousal, and lowers his hands to Sherlock’s chest.

“Never have I ever,” John whispers, eyes on his own fingers as they play with Sherlock’s shirt buttons, “undressed another man.”

Sherlock wracks his memories for an instance - _any_ instance will do - because he _wants_ to undress John; to have the experience for the other man to call upon because those are the rules of this game, aren’t they?

He finds one.

“It was a corpse,” Sherlock states as an offering, hands already lifting slightly to the hem of John’s jumper in anticipation.

“Good enough for me,” John concedes, lifting his arms above his head in a submissive, trusting gesture.

Sherlock shudders at the warmth flooding from beneath John’s clothing. Despite the coldness in the room, John is like a furnace and Sherlock lets his thumbs dip under the wool monstrosity which is John’s Marks and Spencer jumper as he strokes along John’s stomach, circling around the navel sensually.

“Undress,” John reminds him with a slight groan.

“Right,” Sherlock nods, “Right. Sorry.”

Sliding his hands up John’s body, Sherlock pulls off the jumper and lets it fall to the side. Normally John would wear a vest, but there had been a recent issue with them (namely Sherlock melting them for an experiment on various textiles. He’s promised to replace them, however, now he’s not so sure that he wants him to) which has forced John to be bare under the jumper. The cold air immediately hits John and causes him to shiver and his nipples to pucker into erect nubs which Sherlock desperately wants to taste; he wants to suck and lick and _feast_ on John’s skin.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, his eyes wide and the hairs on his skin standing up.

Nodding in agreement, Sherlock lets his hands fall to John’s hipbones, holding tight over the denim of John’s jeans. This can’t possibly be happening. This is a dream.

If it’s a dream then it’s a nice one. Sherlock slowly unbuttons John’s trousers and works them down, trying desperately hard not to look or stare ( _or drool_ ) at the view of John in tiny, cupping white Y-fronts.

It should be ridiculous. It should be unsexy and unflattering to see a grown man in Y-fronts - especially white ones which do nothing to hide the very prominent bulge of John’s not-yet-erect penis - but Sherlock can feel his mouth filling with saliva, his blood beginning to boil with pure want. He diverts his eyes and looks away.

“We don’t have to go further if you’re not comfortable,” John soothes, his finger doing another sweep of Sherlock’s cheekbones, “Plus, it’s not going to be attractive when I shrivel up because of the cold. I don’t want your first experience of seeing a living person naked to be my micropenis caused by sub-zero temperatures.”

Sherlock would like to point out how full John’s pants are with his currently mostly-flaccid cock, thus making his argument invalid, but he can’t quite do it. Instead he settles for, “I highly doubt that would be the case, but maybe it _is_ best if we stop it there,” he agrees half-heartedly.

They stay frozen like this for ages: John kneeling, shirtless and denims around his thighs above a Sherlock whose hands are still on his legs, thumbs barely grazing the bottom of the Y-fronts. They’re both worried about what happens from here, suddenly much more sober as they begin to register the cold again.

“Sod this,” John mutters, removing himself from above Sherlock as gracefully as one can in his position, “I’m fucking freezing.”

Sherlock looks lost, hurt, and confused all at once as he watches John completely remove his jeans before crawling under his thick duvet in the neutral middle of the fort. With a content sigh at the increased warmth - though he’s still overly cold - he pokes his head out of the blanket to stare at Sherlock impishly.

“Well?” He asks with a coy smile.

“What?” Sherlock asks in shock, utterly confused.

“Are you going to join me or what?” John asks, but Sherlock is simply doing that blinking thing that means he hasn’t figured out the proper way to respond, so he continues gently, “It’ll be much warmer with two of us under here. If you want.”

Sherlock shakes his head as though waking up and clears his throat, “It _is_ the best use of our combined body heat, to trap it in a small space,” he agrees logically, slowly crawling towards John’s make-shift burrito blanket.

John smiles brightly as he lifts a corner to allow the other man to join him, then does his best to secure said corner under Sherlock to seal the heat in as efficiently as possible. They are pressed chest to chest tightly, noses almost touching as they stare into each other’s eyes and try to deduce if the moment is gone - if the magical world of No Rules forged by the scotch has been lost.

John’s left hand hesitantly raises to land on Sherlock’s hip as his eyes are drawn down to his cupid’s bow in wanting. He doesn’t even realise that he’s inching closer to that tempting mouth until he hears Sherlock whisper his name, the upward inflection of uncertainty at the end.

“Tell me to stop,” John practically begs on a whisper, eyes still locked on his lips. His heart is hammering in his chest and everywhere he touches Sherlock is aflame despite the unbelievable cold.

Sherlock shakes his head before nudging their freezing noses together in a quick Eskimo kiss, “Don’t stop,” he whispers in return, a plea.

With a quiet huff of air that might have tried to be a moan, John brings their lips back together desperately. Both sets of eyes close tight against the feeling of rightness and the hope that this one night is just the beginning of something wonderful, instead of the end of the possibility that it ever _could_ be.

Shaking with arousal, Sherlock arches his hips (and already erect penis) away from John as he opens his mouth slightly to allow John’s tongue free reign. The first touch of John’s tongue against his own is like fire shooting through his veins, causing his mind palace to go offline with a buzz of static. Sherlock can’t think of anywhere he would rather be in this moment than right here, curled up against John’s heaving chest.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, pulling away and stroking Sherlock’s hair, “Sherlock this --”

“Stop talking, John,” Sherlock responds and goes in for another kiss which rapidly turns heated with a deep moan and a touch of John’s hands up and down Sherlock’s torso. Although still dressed, the touch is almost too much and Sherlock stumbles in his kissing, his body shivering and trembling.

Huffing with a giggle, John does it again and again, stroking Sherlock’s flank in an almost hypnotic way until Sherlock pulls back, his eyes unsure as he stills John’s hand, “I...should I undress? The best way to treat hypothermia is with skin to skin contact.”

“We don’t have hypothermia,” John smirks before going still, “and I don’t think this is about the cold _or_ the game anymore, is it?”

Sherlock looks at John and bites his lip, “No,” he admits quietly, his shaking hands attempting to undo his pearl buttons only to slip off.

“Here,” John whispers, cautiously moving Sherlock’s hands away and replacing them with his own. He slides each button through the hole and peels it aside, showing for the first time Sherlock’s arousal-flushed chest and neck which momentarily takes John’s breath away, “You’re beautiful,” he mumbles, unable to stop himself from speaking.

“I can assure you I’m not,” Sherlock huffs, unbelieving.

John’s eyes narrow in challenge and he twists so Sherlock is now lying flat with John hovering slightly over him, “Yes, you are,” he insists sincerely, kissing a quick peck to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, “You’re gorgeous like this.”

“You’re intoxicated,” Sherlock laughs, although feeling the pride welling inside him that John - _his John_ \- thinks that he is attractive.

“Berk,” John scoffs and begins to travel kisses along Sherlock’s jawline and down his throat, finding all of the small erogenous zones which Sherlock had no idea existed before this moment. For example: there is apparently a spot just to the left of his adam’s apple which makes his leg do a funny twitch thing.

John smiles and continues his journey down, lathering kisses and small sucks across Sherlock’s collarbone, feeling the nudge of the bone which didn’t quite set right when Sherlock broke it and refused to go to hospital for treatment. John makes sure to lick and caress that place excessively before moving down and taking one of Sherlock’s nipples into his mouth.

“Hzzzmm!” Sherlock cries, arching his back and looking down in stunned awe at John who simply smirks and does it again, applying suction and licking around the now-swollen nub in his mouth before biting softly, his other hand moving to pinch and roll the other nipple at the same time.

Sherlock freezes, he can feel the throbbing in his hugely erect penis, precome dripping out into his silk boxers to stain and mark the fabric. It’s too much, the sensations are too enormous for someone to deal with. He can’t -- he can’t -- Oh god.

Sherlock shudders, his fingers turning into talons as he grabs onto the bedding beneath him, almost ripping the fabric in his grip as his hips tremble and his cock twitches and pulses streams of ejaculate. He has come in his pants like a teenage boy having his first handsy grope.

John feels Sherlock tense and he slows his mouth; he’s not sure if Sherlock likes this or not, and the detective is probably too embarrassed to say anything. Pulling off with a wet pop, John wipes his spit-slicked lips and looks down at Sherlock, their massively dilated pupils meeting before Sherlock looks away embarrassed, “You okay?”

“John...I…” Sherlock starts before attempting to bolt for the exit of their fort. John is quicker, however, and pulls Sherlock back down, holding him tightly, “Desist!”

“Not until you tell me what’s happened; have you changed your mind? Which is fine by the way…” John says, desperately hoping that that isn’t the case.

Sherlock whines low in his throat and rubs at his face, “No it’s...”

The scent of male ejaculate hangs heady and strong in the air between them and Sherlock blushes fiercely as John finally realises what’s happened, “Oh,” he whispers.

“Quite,” Sherlock says as he looks down at himself with a wince. He’s ruined everything. His one chance is gone.

“And that happened...because of me?” John asks, and if Sherlock isn’t mistaken, it seems like John’s voice has gotten deeper and more aroused. Blotches of colour snake up John’s chest and neck and he clears his throat, “Because of what I did?”

“Yes,” Sherlock admits, seeing as he can’t exactly deny it.

“Fuck, that’s sexy,” John smiles devilishly, surging up to claim Sherlock’s mouth again hungrily.

“You’re not... _disappointed?_ ” Sherlock asks in shock as he pulls back from John, unwilling to believe that he hasn’t ruined everything after all.

John eyes him curiously, as though trying to judge if he’s serious or not, “Disappointed? Of course I’m not _disappointed_!” He chuckles slightly before expanding on the thought, “The fact that you liked what I was doing so much that you couldn’t control yourself? I have to say, it’s doing some great things for my ego at the moment. And I meant it, Sherlock: it’s bloody sexy.”

Sherlock leans down to be able to hide his still-embarrassed face in John’s neck before whispering, “John,” in a tone that’s completely new to both of their ears.

John brings his left hand up to run through Sherlock’s curls as his right runs over his back and side comfortingly. John is still incredibly turned on by the entire situation, but the cold from not being completely covered is making his erection wane. He desperately doesn’t want this to be over just yet.

“Come on,” he says gently, pushing Sherlock from him slightly, “make a quick trip to the loo, put the few remaining burnables on the fire, and then come back,” he walks him through the process only because he can tell that Sherlock is still a bit offline, “Yeah?”

“Yes, John,” he replies automatically before moving to do just that.

While Sherlock is away, John gratefully curls himself fully back under the heavy blanket they had been using. As his body warms back up and he thinks about bringing Sherlock to a completely unexpected orgasm, his cock begins to stiffen again. He sighs, biting his lower lip, as he moves his left hand to rub himself through his pants.

His original, admittedly-not-very-thoroughly-thought-out plan was to stop touching himself when he heard Sherlock seeing to the fire, but he didn’t end up hearing that at all. What he _did_ hear was Sherlock’s gasping moan after he re-entered the fort and caught him masturbating.

John’s eyes shoot open in embarrassment at having been caught, his hand pulling from himself quickly in reflex, “Sherlock…shit, sorry.”

Sherlock is looking at him hungrily again as he crawls his way closer, “You still need release,” he states huskily, and the words should _definitely_ not turn John on even more than he is already, considering how unsexy they are.

He moans quietly before answering, “I can take care of it myself if you don’t want...if you don’t feel comfortable. I can do it in the loo, if you’d prefer.”

Sherlock shakes his head with a flirtatious smile as he kneels next to John, “The loo is freezing, you’d just torture yourself,” he reasons before leaning down to kiss John sweetly, “I don’t mind, just tell me what you need.”

John huffs disbelievingly as he searches Sherlock’s eyes, but finding only an open, trusting longing in their bright depths, “You’re still dressed,” is all he can think to say.

“I can fix that,” he smirks as he divests himself of his clothing as quickly as the limited height space allows.

“Someone once told me that skin to skin contact is the best way to treat hypothermia,” John says as a way to distract himself from the beautiful sight before him.

“We don’t have hypothermia,” Sherlock parrots back John’s own argument to him in reply as he moves under the cover to steal John’s body heat in naught but his silk boxers.

“We might,” he reasons with a playful smile, welcoming Sherlock back into his arms, “with the alcohol in our systems, who knows how cold we truly are?”

“Yes, best to be on the safe side,” Sherlock agrees with mock sincerity.

They both laugh at their ridiculous antics before they’re kissing heatedly once more. John moans as he pushes their hips closer together, unconsciously seeking any form of friction on his straining cock.

“John, how?” Sherlock pants, wanting to help make him feel as good as John had made him.

“God, I don’t know. Anything,” John answers, beyond actually caring _how_ he got off, just so long as Sherlock was touching him when it happened.

“I don’t…” Sherlock shakes his head shyly, “I want to...but I don’t know how,” he practically pleads for John to take pity on him and just instruct him on what to do without making him continuously admit how inexperienced he is. How no one has wanted to touch him or be touched _by him_ like this before.

John moans deep in his throat at the reminder that Sherlock hasn’t ever been touched this way, and he rolls them so that he’s mostly on top of him without thought, their legs alternating. That’s when John feels the answering hardness of the man below him. He huffs as he drops down to kiss the maddening man intensely before whispering, “Again already?”

“My first experience with proper stimuli, and you’re amazed that I possess a quick refractory period?” He asks in honest confusion, as though John might be an idiot.

John laughs before kissing him again, “Alright, genius,” he mutters before moving fully on top of him. Their smiles are gone, replaced by desire as John positions himself between Sherlock’s legs, guiding the limbs to his hips. The position places their still-confined cocks next to each other, and they both moan loudly as John thrusts short but powerfully.

Sherlock’s right hand goes to the back of John’s neck to pull him down until their foreheads are pressed together as they share the same air, his left grasping firmly around John’s bicep. They continue this way, thrusting sensuously against each other with no real sense of urgency, until John determines that they’ll need a bit more stimulation to climax. He drops his right hand between them, so that his left can still support his weight, and grabs Sherlock’s cock through the silky fabric.

“Fuck!” Sherlock moans as his back arches off the floor, inadvertently separating their foreheads as he brings the rest of their bodies closer together.

“Oh, fuck,” John moans, hips slamming harder against Sherlock as he hears the curse escape the lips of this overly refined, bespoke-suit-wearing, posh Adonis below him. He really can’t believe his luck.

With John’s hand massaging him as his cock thrusts against his, Sherlock comes hard for a second time, shooting even more semen into the lining of his silk pants. The feel of Sherlock’s pulsing erection through the elegant material, as well as the utterly destroyed look on his face, brings John quickly over the edge after only a few more thrusts.

John falls off to his right side, pulling Sherlock with him so they’re still cuddled close as they fight to regain their breath, “That...was amazing,” John pants before kissing Sherlock hard.

“You think so?” He asks innocently, unsure how the experience truly compares for the more experienced man.

“Of course it was,” John tells him sincerely, “it was extraordinary.”  
  
Sherlock looks at him curiously, aware of this exact exchange happening during their very first cab ride together all those years ago, “John, are you aware that you’ve already used those words before?”

John laughs, “You’re not the only one in the world with a good memory, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blushes, “Right,” he agrees, “because you’re a doctor, and that takes a very skilled mind to…”

John shuts him up with a kiss, relishing in the feel of Sherlock melting into it in submission with a tiny moan. John entwines their legs further, but winces when he feels the slick discomfort of his Y-fronts. He pulls back reluctantly.

“Are you alright if we remove our pants? I don’t think either of us would relish trying to get them off once everything has dried.”

Sherlock doesn’t even answer verbally, simply moves away just enough to remove his boxers and throw them outside of the blanket. John chuckles as he does the same, but then he hesitates in pulling Sherlock back to him, not wanting to overwhelm him.

“I’m not going to swoon like a Victorian maiden, John,” Sherlock huffs, feeling suddenly brave as he shimmies across the space and settles himself in the crook of John’s neck, inhaling the scent whilst his hands roam tenderly across John’s naked torso. John smiles, hiding his face in the dark curls and inhales the musky scent of Sherlock’s hair, giving it a soft kiss before pulling away for a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Attractive,” Sherlock chuckles from beneath him.

They settle, relaxing into the warmth of their cocoon and letting themselves drift away until Sherlock is snoring softly, his breath fluttering the hairs on John’s chest. It’s completely perfect until the power comes back on with a start, the central heating immediately kicking in with a thrum of activity and a clanking of old pipes.

“I suppose...we should go to our separate beds,” Sherlock whispers, sounding bereft and demoralised, “since we were only doing this to conserve body heat.”

“Shut up, idiot,” John laughs and gathers the detective in his arms, kissing him and shushing his protestations.  
  
Sherlock allows himself to be drawn in with a shy, besotted grin. He’ll argue about the idiot comment tomorrow.


	2. Because He Deserves It.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of Mine and Goddess' work.
> 
> Let us know what you think!
> 
> Merry/Happy Christmas everyone! We hope this smut makes up for having to deal with families. Love you all!

Of all the conversations which John has ever expected to have on a Wednesday morning, this was not one of them.

Sherlock stands in front of him, his pale blue dressing gown hanging over his cotton pyjamas as Sherlock looks on nervously. There is an energy buzzing in the space between them which John can’t quite place, something which hadn’t happened since their night in Fort Manlove (as he had taken to mentally calling it) almost a week prior. John had anticipated more intimacy, more casual touching perhaps, and at least another opportunity for kissing, but Sherlock had been busy. First with a case which took them four days to solve and then with an experiment which included frozen fish eyes and a blowtorch (John didn’t ask).

John had resolved to forget the event as a moment of drunken madness brought on by the cold temperature and the alcohol.

Which is why it was so surprising when Sherlock cleared his throat and began to speak.

“John, I wondered if you would be amenable to engaging in more coitus?” Sherlock asks tensely, the twitching of his fingers the only tell showing his anxiety.

“In...what?” John blinks, his brain running treacle slow this early on a morning without a brew of tea.

Sherlock groans, presses his knuckles to his eyes and then exhales roughly, “I hoped you would be interested in...furthering my education in sexual proclivities?”

“You want to snog again?” John replies, catching up quickly.

Sherlock’s cheeks blush a beautiful shade in the morning light flooding in the bay window and he looks away nervously, “I hoped we could go further,” he admits quietly, “to other activities I lack knowledge in.”

“Like what?” John quizzes, he loves the view of a nervous and bed-mussed Sherlock.

“Like -- ahem -- fellatio?” Sherlock responds with a break in the words. His awkwardness appears to include talking about sex acts, not just doing them.

“Oh,” John smirks, “giving or receiving?”

Sherlock blinks rapidly, obviously not expecting such a reaction from John, “Oh er...both? Perhaps? You don’t have to do it to me, of course, if you’d prefer to avoid it.”

John shakes his head fondly, but his own cheeks are stained with a bit of a blush of their own as he admits, “No, that would be fine.”

After all, John doesn’t have  _ much  _ experience with men (the army being his only opportunity), but he  _ wants  _ to experience these things with Sherlock.

Sherlock looks a bit shocked but relieved, the tension leaving his body with a visual lowering of his shoulders and straightening of his back, “Good.”

“Come sit down,” John pats the sofa cushion to his right. He folds the paper and sets it aside as he switches his own positioning, facing more towards the windows with his right arm stretched leisurely across the back of the sofa.

“We’re going to try it...now?” Sherlock asks wearily as he sits, nervous all over again.

John rolls his eyes with such exaggeration that his head actually moves along with the motion, “No, Sherlock, we’re going to  _ talk  _ about things first,” he explains calmly.

“Talk about what?”

“About what all you’re interested in trying,” John insists, trying to remain in control of his traitorous body, already flushed in embarrassment at the same time he’s fighting arousal just  _ thinking  _ about what Sherlock is going to let him do to him.

“I have to lay them all out  _ right now _ ?” Sherlock huffs, his haughtiness helping to dispel his own embarrassment. It’s a more comfortable territory.

John rolls his eyes again, less exaggerated this time, “Not  _ all _ of them; it’s not like I’m going to deny you something you don’t bring up this very instant, but I want…” he breathes deep, “I  _ need _ to get a feel for what types of things you’re thinking about.”

“Why?” Sherlock asks, honestly curious.

“Because I might not be interested in some of the things,” he admits, though he hates the thought that it might drive Sherlock away from him again, “I don’t have that much more experience with men than you do, honestly, but I want to do this,” he insists honestly as he searches Sherlock’s eyes.

“For me?” Sherlock asks in a guarded way, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that John would only be doing this simply as a selfless way to further Sherlock’s knowledge. Even with the way he presented it to John a few minutes ago, he wants the other man to want this, too. To want  _ him _ .

“For  _ us _ ,” John states clearly, eyes resolute as he looks at Sherlock with the confident knowledge that his persistence on the joint term states his intent that that’s what they are now. An “us”. A “we”.

Sherlock registers the term but needs to clarify; needs there to be no more miscommunications between them. He steels his resolve with a deep breath, “For our romantic relationship? You really want to be with me like you’ve been with your girlfriends?”

John smiles in relief that he’s gotten it, “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes,” Sherlock deadpans honestly, and John’s smile falters.

“Sherlock, ever since I met you, no one else has measured up. To your brilliance, to your attractiveness, to the sense of meaning that you bring to my life. Even when I was out on a date with one of them, you would call and I’d come running,” he sort of chuckles at the ridiculous truth in hind sight, “For fuck’s sake, there has never been anyone other than you from that very first adventure.”

“But Mary…” he presses with uncertainty, even as his chest threatens to burst open with elation.

“I only married her because you rebuffed my advances once more, on the stag night. I thought you had no romantic interest in me whatsoever, so I was trying to move on again,” he explains in exasperated melancholy.

“You...I...we...” Sherlock stammers before closing his mouth tightly and swaying slightly on the spot, “I think I should sit down.”

“You _ are _ sitting down,” John frowns, “Sherlock are you okay?”

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock gives a fake smile that John sees through immediately, “Absolutely fine. I’m very fine. Very very.”

“Jesus, I’ve broken you,” John groans while rubbing a hand through his sandy blonde hair, “I thought you knew. I thought...I thought surely you must have deduced it.”

Sherlock seems to snap out of his daze, the tiny wrinkle above his nose forming and then smoothing away, “No. No. Yes. Well, I deduced a fondness; like one has for a favourite pet or teddy bear. You needed me for the excitement I could provide. I didn’t see that you needed me for...intimacy.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John whispers, leaning forward to be able to wrap an arm around the younger man to pull him closer, “You’re more than a pet. You’re...” John flounders for the word and simply decides on: “ _ Everything _ .”

Sherlock turns his head towards John, his eyes warm and needy as the pair gaze at one another. Static crackles in the space between them and suddenly he can’t help himself. Swooping down gracefully, Sherlock presses his lips to John’s and moans at the sensation, something he had only been remembering in the locked room dedicated to the breathy sounds John makes when he orgasms, and how tightly he was held as they fell asleep in an embrace.

John runs his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, frizzing them without care as he holds the back of Sherlock’s neck and keeps him in place so he can deepen the kiss to include tongues and hot breath. They kiss for a long time, their tongues caressing one another sensually until their jaws begin to ache and click.

Pulling away first, John takes a deep breath of much missed oxygen before smiling bashfully, “If you’re wanting to...do what you said, then it’s best that we don’t make our jaws hurt already.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flush at the thought and he nods once, reaching to entwine the fingers of his left hand with John’s right.

“We never did get to the part where you explained what, exactly, you’d like to experience,” John reminds him, settling his right side against Sherlock comfortably while still being able to look at him and see if the conversation becomes too much.

“With you? Everything,” Sherlock insists sincerely.

John laughs, an extremely pleased feeling in his chest, “Even my limited brain knows that ‘everything’ encompasses a lot of things that you probably don’t want to do.”

“Like what?” Sherlock asks, not understanding that there could be anything off the table when it comes to John.

“Like…I don’t know,” John starts, wracking his brain for any ridiculous or unappealing act, and gets stuck on the first thing that comes to his mind. Well, he had wanted ridiculous, hadn’t he? “Like, I could fuck you with a banana.”

The crinkle between Sherlock’s eyes is back, along with a very worried look, as though he thinks John may have lost his mind, “Why would you want to waste fruit by placing it in my rectum?”

John laughs at the combination of Sherlock’s face and the words, “What, like you’re actually going to  _ eat  _ the banana instead?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean I want to use it for  _ that _ ,” he insists vehemently.

John smiles in triumph as he nods his head, “See? Something that’s encompassed by ‘everything’ that you don’t want to do.”

Realisation dawns on Sherlock’s face, “Oh,” he says in revelation.

“So, how about you just say some of the things you’ve been thinking about doing. There’s obviously at least one thing, and like I said: it’s not like we can’t do anything else we might think of later.”

Sherlock shifts uneasily, unable to meet John’s eyes again in embarrassment. He knows John wants to do these things with him - at least  _ some  _ things, at any rate - but he’s never had to vocalise such thoughts before. He decides to lay his head on John’s left shoulder, nose brushing near his collarbone, so he can have the comfort of John without having to see any judgement that may cross his face.

“Well, the fellatio, as I already stated,” he starts simply with ground they’ve already covered as a way to ease his fears.

“Yes, which I am amenable to both giving and receiving,” John soothes him in reminder, glad that Sherlock has chosen not to look at his face as he does this so that he can’t see John’s embarrassment. He’s a grown man, for fuck’s sake; he has had plenty of sex in the past. But this is different, because it’s a man - because it’s  _ Sherlock _ . The stakes are unbelievably, intimidatingly high.

Sherlock nods, gathering courage to continue. He breathes deep to give himself courage, “And I was thinking maybe rimming?” He asks uncertainly, using the terminology he researched aloud for the first time.

John swallows at the mental picture, cursing his cock for beginning to harden at even the suggestion, “Giving or receiving?” He asks shakily.

“I admit that I’m more interested in receiving than giving when it comes to this, but I want you to be satisfied and happy, so if you’d like to experience it, as well, I…”

John puts a stop to his rambling by squeezing his hand hard in reassurance, “I don’t want you to do a single thing you don’t want to,” he tells him seriously before placing a kiss to his curls, “I’ve never done that to anyone before, and I may be complete rubbish at it, but I’m willing to try. For you.”

Sherlock nuzzles into John’s chest affectionately, feeling slightly more comfortable with making requests now, “Thank you. I also thought about you penetrating me,” he admits quietly, as if ashamed of the words, “How full you would make me feel; how  _ good _ .”

“Oh, fuck,” John hisses as his cock becomes rock hard in seconds just hearing those words.

Sherlock sees the bulge grow in John’s lap, and he becomes unexpectedly emboldened all of a sudden, “Yes, you’d fuck me, wouldn’t you?” He asks as though he’s simply asking John to buy him a treat he desperately wants, turning his face to John’s neck as he breathes the next words hotly onto it, “Fuck me gently until I’m begging for you to give it to me harder, faster,  _ more. _ ”

They both moan as Sherlock sucks an incredibly sensitive spot on John’s neck, both men bucking their hips in anticipation.

“ _ Sherlock _ ,” John moans, finally separating their hands to be able to card his right hand through those curls again.

“I want that, John,” Sherlock whispers, nuzzling into the side of John’s face, “I want  _ you _ .”

John makes a sound unlike anything he’s heard before, a cross between a moan and a dominant growl as he flips Sherlock from above him until Sherlock is sprawled in a dazed heap, his legs wide open for John to slip in between. Smiling with amusement, John raises an eyebrow in challenge before latching on to the top of the detective’s pajama bottoms and shimmying them down the long, pale legs. John chuckles as he throws the fabric over his shoulders and begins kissing up and down the hot, hot heat of Sherlock’s skin.

“John,” Sherlock breathes, fingers grasping the sofa cushions and feeling the first beads of sweat forming at his hairline.

“Relax, I’ll look after you,” John smiles, giving Sherlock’s ankle a squeeze before taking a deep breath and bringing his mouth close to Sherlock’s boxer shorts and the large, throbbing bulge beneath.

Sherlock internally scoffs at John’s comment. How can he relax? John could be disappointed or  _ disgusted _ ! What if his foreskin was too long or his body had an unpleasant odour?

“Stop thinking,” John warns with a puff of breath against Sherlock’s inner thigh causing a shiver up the younger man’s spine, “I can hear you.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock lies, feigning ignorance for the first time in his life.

John sits back on his heels, “I can feel that you’re panicking and I don’t know why. Everything is okay.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose it is. You’ve already seen my foreskin once,” Sherlock hums in agreement, allowing his body to relax slightly against the sofa.

“Er -- yeah?” John agrees, because sometimes it’s simpler to just agree with the madman.

With a nervous exhale, John pushes his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock’s pants and pulls them down slowly. Sherlock’s erection giving slight resistance before slapping against his stomach with a wet sound, already splashing a couple drops of precome on Sherlock’s pyjama shirt and the blue silk dressing gown.

“You could have undressed me,” Sherlock scoffs, rolling his eyes, “Now the dry cleaner is going to make _ comments _ .”

“Would you like to snark at me to cover your embarrassment, or do you want me to actually touch you?” John asks with an edge of annoyance to his voice. He loves this man and he knows him extremely well, so he’s certain that this mood of his has the potential to send everything to hell in a handbasket quickly.

Sherlock purses his lips as he tilts his head back, eyes facing the ceiling though they’re closed. He hates to be corrected on his behavior, and he  _ definitely  _ hates when John is right about him, “I apologise,” Sherlock states calmly, honestly, “Please continue.”

“Are you sure?” He clarifies one more time, not wanting to rush things for him.

“I am certain,” Sherlock nods, looking back down his body to lock eyes with John vulnerably.

“Alright then,” John smiles warmly up at him before moving his attention back to Sherlock’s cock. It has flagged a bit in his embarrassment, but John doesn’t mind one bit. John wraps his strong hand around the shaft, lifting it off of Sherlock’s abdomen to be able to stroke it easier. Sherlock hisses, raising his hips and throwing his head back again, “Okay?” John checks.

Sherlock just shudders out a moan as he relaxes back into the couch, eyes focused downwards again. He simply nods in assurance, unable to find words.

John smirks confidently as he holds the other man’s gaze as he continues stroking him. Or, at least he  _ tries  _ to, because the detective can’t seem to be able to keep his own eyes open. John admires the beautiful sight before him: the beautifully lanky man, cotton pajama shirt and dressing gown still covering him, with his eyes closed tightly as if this were a dream that he desperately doesn’t want to wake from. His mouth is moving in silent shapes that John isn’t certain are supposed to be words, but the moans escaping through those lips are sin.

Though it’s only been a few minutes, John can already feel the tell-tale signs of orgasm wracking Sherlock’s body: the thickening of the prick in his hand, the quickening of his breaths, the increased intensity of his moans.

John pulls his hand away.

It takes the most brilliant man in the world a shocking amount of time to realise the change in events.

He moans in disappointment before questioning, “John?” while finally looking at him again.

John can see the worry creeping back into his friend’s -  _ lover’s _ , he thinks - eyes and remembers how very fragile this man is. His smile is unmistakably fond as he climbs over Sherlock to kiss his lips in a hard, reaffirming kiss. It takes a few seconds, but Sherlock responds in kind with a relieved sigh.

“What could I possibly say to make you stop questioning my desire to be here, doing this with you?” John whispers seriously, face only far enough away to be able to look into his eyes.

Sherlock bites his bottom lip in uncharacteristic bashfulness. Ah, so there  _ are  _ words to ease his fears, he’s just worried about it coming across in a certain way. Sounding too needy, perhaps?

John nods slightly to himself, guessing at what the words may be. And if he’s wrong? Well, they’re not a lie and they certainly couldn’t  _ hurt  _ anything, could they? He braces himself with a breath.

“I love that you’re so sensitive; that you’ve never had anyone touch you like this before. I love that you trust me enough to let me see the intense emotions my touch makes you feel. I love that you’re nervous yet eager. I love that you’re embarrassed by your inexperience in this one matter. I love  _ you _ , no matter what,” he swears honestly. He had been nervous about saying the words aloud, but it feels like a great weight has lifted from his chest.

“You...you do?” Sherlock stutters, face showing the full range of his emotions in a rare moment of unguarded feeling.

John nods and kisses him hard, trying to convey the truth another way, “Yes,” he whispers when he can bring himself to stop kissing him.

“Then why did you stop?” Sherlock can’t help but ask, pure confusion in his voice.

“Because you asked for a blow job, not a hand job,” John reminds him with an amused smile.

The look of dawning realisation as his cheeks pinken is adorable. He surges up to claim John’s lips again, slightly clumsy but he’s a quick study, “I love you, John,” he whispers against his lips so quietly that John is almost unable to hear it.

John makes a hungry, possessive sound as he closes the gap again, kissing him harder than ever. When Sherlock keens and raises his body to try to gain any touch he can, John finally pulls away again.

“Let’s move this to the bed,” John says, the fingers of his right hand moving reverently over the younger man’s pronounced cheekbone. Sherlock merely nods emphatically.

They stand a bit awkwardly from the sofa, Sherlock pulling his pants back up with a grimace, before John leads him by the hand to Sherlock’s bedroom.

The room is still in semi-darkness thanks to Sherlock’s black out blinds, with the heated smell of sleep lingering around the detective’s rumpled bed. Sherlock stands awkwardly at the side of the mattress, his fingers twitching and tightening into a fist, “I’m not quite sure of the formalities of this,” he admits with a grimace.

“I am,” John smiles in response and grabs Sherlock’s dressing gown, pulling it away from Sherlock’s body and letting it flutter weightlessly to the floor. Next, he works on Sherlock’s shirt, pulling it over the riotous curls before it - and finally his bottoms - join the dressing gown on the floor. 

John rapidly strips out of his own clothes with a graceless hop before kissing his lover softly yet passionately, “Lie down,” he insists.

Trembling slightly, Sherlock sits on the bed and arranges his legs into a comfortable position, his hands covering his exposed genitals. He’s hard, pushing against his own palm as he blushes darkly and averts his eyes to the other side of the room.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, lifting his hand to Sherlock’s chin to tilt it up, “Relax. If you don’t want to do this then we don’t have to.”

“No. I do,” Sherlock insists, launching himself at John and kissing him roughly and without finesse, “I’m just...nervous.”

John pulls away and presses a tender kiss to Sherlock’s nose before pushing their foreheads together, “I’ll look after you,” he promises again quietly.

“I didn’t doubt it for a second, Doctor,” Sherlock grins cheekily before lying back on the bed and moving his hands to tangle in the bedding at his sides, taking a deep breath.

John maneuvers himself so that he’s half laying over Sherlock’s body with their mouths connected, slowly kissing as his hand trails up and down Sherlock’s slim frame, up his arms to his jawline and then back down again. Sherlock gasps and moans, still unused to the sensations as John’s hands seem to touch him everywhere at once.

“John!” Sherlock gasps, pulling his mouth from the other man’s as John runs the pad of his thumb over his left nipple.

John meets his eyes with a mischievous glint as he lowers his mouth to the nipple instead, closing his eyes in concentrated bliss when his lips meet it. Here is a place he’s confident, because they’re just about the same on everyone. Though, he thought he had heard once that men’s nipples aren’t as sensitive as females’ (his own certainly aren’t), but Sherlock, as usual, defies typical categorization.

John doesn’t stay in one position too long, remembering all too well that Sherlock tends to have a shorter fuse than most, and he wants to give him everything; let him  _ experience  _ what pleasure truly is.

Sherlock arches off the mattress as John moves further down the side of his ribs, lightly dragging his teeth across the tight skin in a move that surely shouldn’t be that arousing. He then kisses his way to Sherlock’s navel and kisses, licks, and nips at the sensitive area, causing more enthusiastic moans to be pulled from the man below him.

John smirks in triumph at being able to reduce the great Sherlock Holmes to this: a moaning, writhing mess of sexual energy. While he’s been imagining being with Sherlock like this for years, he’s also secretly worried that he may not measure up to the other man - may not be good enough for him. But  _ he’s  _ the one pulling these sounds from those enticing lips, and  _ he’s  _ the one causing the detective’s hips to buck up wildly in search of any form of friction. And honestly? He couldn’t be more pleased with himself or the affect he has on this man that he loves entirely too much for his own good.

Deciding that it’s time to move on, to finally allow them both to experience this side of a blow job for the first time, he moves down slowly -  _ so slowly  _ \- over Sherlock’s cock. He breathes heavy, hot air onto it, unable to resist teasing him just a bit more, before continuing on his way past it to his legs.

“Nnng!” Sherlock moans in a combination of desperation and frustration, so close to the blessed edge of oblivion, but not yet close  _ enough _ .

“I know,” John whispers affectionately before commanding gently, “Look at me.”

Sherlock shakes his head, not believing that he can look at John and not lose it completely, ending it all too soon.

“Please, Sherlock,” John entreats him as he draws lazy, soothing patterns on Sherlock’s right thigh, “for me.”

Sherlock exhales roughly, unable to deny John this request. He looks down his own body, ignoring its imperfections to find the stunning, perfect face of John... _ his John _ .

John kisses Sherlock’s thigh as he looks up bravely, meeting his lover’s eyes before taking a deep breath and licking a stripe up the straining skin of Sherlock’s erection. He feels it twitch, bobbing onto Sherlock’s stomach as the younger man groans and holds the bedding tighter. Precome soaks Sherlock’s belly and it doesn’t seem like Sherlock will be able to stave off his orgasm much longer.

“Deep breaths,” John whispers, kissing Sherlock’s knee tenderly and running his hand up and down Sherlock’s calves until Sherlock is breathing more naturally. Once the imminent orgasm dwindles away, John takes his hand and wraps it around the base of Sherlock’s cock, holding it tight as he looks at the slick head. A bolt of anxiety rushes through him but he fights it away as he lowers his head and takes the tip into his mouth, licking at the slit to clear away the precome.

“John!” Sherlock barks, looking down and then slamming his head back, “I can’t look. But...I can’t  _ not _ look! Oh god!”

John smiles and tries a tiny amount of suction, feeling the next pulse of pre-ejaculate hitting his tongue with a wince. Sherlock needs to give up smoking and coffee if it makes his come taste this bitter. He licks at the head lightly, and Sherlock seizes again.

“John, I’m…!” He warns, but John pulls off completely in one quick movement, halting the orgasm by denying him all touch, “John!” Sherlock groans out angrily.

John smooths his hands over Sherlock’s legs again, trying to get him to calm down once more, “Just trying to let you experience it.”

“I’m  _ experiencing it  _ just fine,” he mocks, “why won’t you let me come?”

“Call it an experiment,” John smirks as he traces his left pointer finger lightly from base to tip, enjoying the look of the cock pulsing upwards.

“Oh, God, this is how I die, isn’t it?” Sherlock moans while looking at the ceiling again. His whole body is so on edge already, maybe he could just bring himself off by sheer force of will, no touch required. But then John would stop touching him, and that would be the real tragedy here, not that he’s been denied a quick orgasm.

“God forbid you get dramatic,” John huffs, kissing Sherlock's skin again. 

When Sherlock's grumbling ceases, John holds Sherlock’s prick steady and licks around the swollen and blood-flushed tip. Dipping his head, John takes the first few inches into his mouth and sucks tentatively, enjoying the way Sherlock pushes against the roof of his mouth and then against his tongue. Sherlock cries out, attempting to grip the bedding tightly whilst his hips move up and down unconsciously; the first time it happens, John is prepared and holds on tightly, but as he lets his other hand slip down to fondle and stroke at Sherlock’s bollocks, he is surprised by a harsh thrust which sends Sherlock slipping down his throat, making him pull away abruptly with a wet gagging noise.

“John! John I’m sorry!” Sherlock stammers, looking up guiltily, “It felt so good.”

“I understand,” John winces, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before placing it firmly on Sherlock’s hips to keep them against the bed as he dips his head back down, licking and teasing the tight skin.

Sherlock’s back arches and his toes curl in the bedsheets as he claws at his own hair, pulling it tightly as he moans in pleasure. John feels strangely proud that he can reduce Sherlock to this - to be the one to give him this bliss - but he can already feel the rapid onset of lockjaw and cramp, and he immediately regrets all of the drunken complaints in the pub with his army mates or Lestrade about women and their refusal to give long blowjobs. He should buy his ex-girlfriends some apology flowers.

Bringing himself back to reality, John twirls his tongue around the frenulum again, swallowing the bitter saliva which has formed in his mouth with a wince. Sherlock is whimpering now, a needy and desperate shell of his former self and John can’t keep him on edge any longer.

Dipping a hand down to Sherlock’s full testicles, John strokes and fondles them whilst his head bobs quickly and his other hand holds Sherlock’s hips down. It’s difficult to keep rhythm but Sherlock doesn’t seem to care as he throws his head back and bellows.

“John! John! I can’t hold it and -- I’m coming! John please!!” Sherlock screams.

“Fuck,” John says as he pulls off the almost purple cock and strokes it rapidly; his saliva isn’t the perfect lubricant, but it does the job as Sherlock arches his back into what looks like a yoga position and then clamps his eyes shut, his mouth agape and his hands like talons as he comes hard. Ejaculate pours across his body, soaking from chin to pubic hair in long, thick strands which John teases out with firm strokes until Sherlock falls back to the bed, his chest heaving and his whole body slick with sweat and semen.

“You’re beautiful,” John says tenderly, blinking and looking down at Sherlock with a fierce protectiveness and devotion, “I adore you.”

“John,” is the only response that Sherlock can get out, unable to put voice to his true thought.

John’s brow furrows, however, sensing something unsaid, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Sherlock shakes his head as he fights the feeling of unworthiness, “Nothing,” he lies.

John’s left hand moves to cup Sherlock’s cheek, bringing his focus back in, “There is nothing you can say to diminish how I feel about you.”

John watches as Sherlock flits between several emotions and thoughts. Though he can’t say exactly what each of them are, he wonders if this is what it’s like to be Sherlock Holmes: being able to watch everything play out on someone’s face.

Sherlock’s eyes finally settle, though still a bit uneasy, before he whispers his confession, “I don’t deserve you.”

John’s eyes go impossibly soft as he tilts his head to the left slightly with pursed lips. The words hit him right in the gut. He leans down to kiss Sherlock so hard, so full of passion and love, before he pulls back and whispers his own confession against his lips, “Yes you do. You always have.”

And he means the words in every way possible. The fact that Sherlock has gone through so much of his life being labeled a “freak” by others, being treated coldly, not been allowed to let anyone this close - physically or emotionally - before breaks John a little bit. Sherlock has  _ always  _ deserved to have this type of connection, John was just (somehow) the first person to let him.

Sherlock makes a sad, desperate sound in the back of his throat before closing the distance between their lips once more, kissing him with a ferocity that speaks clearly of his love in return. With a sudden wave of intense passion and determination, Sherlock flips their positions so that he is now peering down, smirking playfully on top of John.

John breaks the kiss to breathe and look at Sherlock questioningly. When he sees the shift in the other man’s eyes from demure to passionate, John groans in a mix of lust and trepidation. Such a look can only mean wicked things.

  
“By my calculation,” Sherlock begins with a mischievous grin as he lowers himself down John’s strong body, “it’s your turn to experience fellatio.”


	3. A First for Both

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter follows immediately after the last but we had to cut it down due to it's length.
> 
> Thank you so much for all the support you have given us via kudos, comments and subs. It really means a lot to us.

“Oh, fuck,” John swears quietly, throwing his head back to the bed briefly before looking down his body to lock eyes once more. The phrasing should not be sexy, but thanks to Sherlock’s deep baritone it immediately makes John’s cock twitch.

A flit of doubt trickles into Sherlock’s eyes as he reminds him, “Remember, I’ve never done this before.”

John lowers his left hand to Sherlock’s curls fondly before replying, “Just be careful with your teeth and I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

Sherlock huffs at the challenge and lowers his head, ensuring his teeth are tucked behind his lips as he cautiously lets his mouth envelop John’s tip. Sherlock’s eyes flick up to stare at John, seeking validation and guidance as his hand rests hot and heavy against John’s thigh.

“God,” John gasps, closing his eyes and licking his lips before cupping Sherlock’s chin with his palm, “Stop panicking. You’re doing great. Really great.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes sullenly before dipping his head again, taking a few more inches into his throat before choking and pulling away. Saliva drips from the corner of Sherlock’s mouth which is rapidly wiped away with a scoff of annoyance before Sherlock tries again, taking it much slower and attempting to manage his breathing.

“That’s good,” John moans, his eyes rolling back, “So good. I hate you for being so quick to pick up new skills,” he laughs.

“No you don’t,” Sherlock mutters around John’s cock, making the doctor laugh.

“No, you’re right. I don’t,” John admits, tenderly moving his hand to stroke up Sherlock’s cheekbone and then into his dark, messy curls as Sherlock gives a few more tentative pulls on John’s cock and lets his tongue explore around the wet slit.

“Do you think you might ejaculate soon?” Sherlock asks, pulling off and looking up innocently at John, “I’m not entirely sure I like the idea of swallowing your semen.”

“Er…” John blinks and tilts his head at the oddness of their shared conversation in what is supposed to be an intimate and tender moment, “Not yet no. I’ll warn you.”

Sherlock nods and bobs his head again, licking and sucking the skin before using his hand to stroke at the soft skin of John’s thighs. The sensation is too much, yet not enough as John lets his head fall back and his eyes flutter closed, one hand tangling into the bedding whilst the other strokes through Sherlock’s hair, not pulling or holding but merely stroking as a firm presence of their connection. 

After a few moments of sloppy sounds and tentative dips of the head, John growls and looks down at Sherlock, using his hand which was in the bedding to tap Sherlock’s shoulder, “Lube?” he asks and Sherlock nods hesitantly, nodding towards the bedside table where a brand new unopened bottle lays. John unwraps the plastic from the top and opens it to have a cautious sniff before handing it to Sherlock with an embarrassed smile, “You can...put a finger in? If you want? Only if you want to do that.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees breathily, without a hint of hesitation, and presses a kiss to the inside of John’s thigh as he gathers himself up and opens the lid to pour some onto his fingers and warm it up. John’s mouth is dry as Sherlock runs his now wet fingers up and down his buttocks and John spreads his legs wider, placing his feet flat on the bed to make it easier for the virgin detective. 

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asks nervously, eyes flickering up and down John’s tight and flushed body as if reading him.

“Definitely,” John nods and gathers Sherlock up for a passionate kiss which momentarily takes their both of their breaths away, “Want it. Want _ you _ .”

Sherlock bites his lower lip at the words before placing his index finger lightly against John’s hole. John hisses as his hips buck of their own accord at the light touch; it’s been so long since anyone has touched him there that he nearly forgot just how good it could feel.

“John?” Sherlock asks, unsure if he was trying to pull away from his touch instead of enjoying it.

John registers the hesitancy and feels Sherlock’s finger pull away, so he rushes to reassure him, “No no, it’s good. So good. God, more.”

Sherlock blushes at the request and returns his finger, firmer this time. Slowly, judging by the resistance coming from John’s body, he pushes his entire index finger inside. He can’t help his curious mind as he moves the finger to feel John’s slick passage from the inside. It’s overly smooth, and he’s certain that the lube is interfering with him feeling everything properly, but the movements cause John to cry out.

“Oh fuck!” John moans, hips bucking again at the feel of the light, inquisitive movements inside him.

Going on instinct, Sherlock moves his finger back out of John’s body slowly, feeling as his large, bony knuckles stretch John’s hole a bit more than the rest of his finger. Sherlock gets so lost in the sight, feeling, and sound of the experience that he’s almost startled when John speaks a real (fragmented) sentence again instead of moans.

“Add another finger,” John instructs with only a hint at begging, looking down his body to watch Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock’s eyes, locked with John’s, widen a bit in shock before he glances fretfully back down to where they are joined, “Are you certain?” He asks as his eyes raise to the other man’s once more.

“God, yes. Please,” John breathes.

Sherlock gently removes his index finger, allowing his slick middle finger to press tightly against it before moving back to John’s body. He watches as he slowly -  _ so  _ slowly and carefully - pushes both digits in before glancing up at John’s face to make sure he’s okay.

John’s head is thrashing back and forth at the torturous pace and the thrill of doing this with this man.

Once they’re in as far as they can reach, Sherlock experimentally wiggles his fingers again, feeling the difference now that the stretch is more intense. When he accidentally brushes against a bundle of nerves, John’s back arches off the bed as he moans louder than ever before.

Sherlock pulls his fingers all the way out in shock, worried that he’s injured John in some way, and stutters out an apology, “John, I’m...I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“What?” John pants in confusion, not entirely sure why Sherlock has pulled away from him.

“Just then I...I hurt you?” He answers with doubt at the end. He’s not sure  _ what  _ just happened.

John giggles, “Hurt me?” John looks down at him and smiles, “Fuck, Sherlock, you just found my prostate.”

Sherlock knows about the prostate, has heard about its sexual advantages, and flushes again, “Not pain, then?”

John chuckles again, “Some people struggle to ever find the prostate; leave it to my genius to stumble upon it on accident.”

Sherlock just smiles innocently with a shrug of his shoulders, pleased by his sheer luck. The warmth of being referred to as John’s genius floods through his body and sends a shiver up his spine at the thought of being claimed by the older man, finally finding someone who wants him.

“Come here,” John motions for him to climb back up his body so he can kiss him fiercely. When Sherlock rubs his erection against John’s thigh, they both let out a moan as the kiss breaks, “Sherlock,” John whispers, swallowing nervously.

“John?” Sherlock questions, pulling away enough to meet his eye.

“I want you to fuck me,” he says, trying to sound confident through his embarrassed blush.

“What?” Sherlock asks in complete confusion, like he was just told that 2+2 equals 5 afterall.

“If you want to, I mean…” John rushes to add, “if it’s too soon, we can wait but I just…” he trails off, unsure how to continue.

“You want  _ me  _ to penetrate  _ you _ ?” Sherlock clarifies, still confused.

John laughs self-consciously, bringing his left hand up to scratch through his hair, “Well...yes.”

“But…” Sherlock looks less confused, more lost for words. It’s a sight John so rarely sees, and he typically likes to revel in the situation. Not this time, “I always thought you’d rather penetrate  _ me _ ,” Sherlock finally finishes his thought honestly.

John’s cock gives a pulse in agreement at the thought, “God yes, I want that, too. It’s just that, no one has ever...I mean I’ve never bottomed before, and you’ve given me so many of your firsts and I have so few to give to you in return. And I want to give you that; I want our first  _ that way  _ to be new for the both of us,” he finally brings his rambling to a close, eyes flitting between Sherlock’s nervously.

Sherlock lunges down to kiss him hungrily, with far too much force for how close together they are, causing John to grunt at the slight pain before he’s moaning again, rubbing his aching erection against Sherlock’s thigh.

“You’re certain?” Sherlock whispers when he pulls away.

“I’m certain,” John confirms with a besotted grin.

Sherlock shimmies down the bed and takes a better position at John’s lower end, reslicking his fingers in a haste to get back inside John. His first two fingers slide in easily, his third catches on John’s rim and it takes some deep breaths and relaxation techniques from John before even the tips are able to push inside.

“It won’t fit,” Sherlock panics, his eyes blinking at John’s slowly softening penis.

“It will,” John says, inhaling deeply and bearing down so that more of Sherlock’s digits slip inside. John hums deeply, his eyes fluttering closed as he reaches up to touch and stroke his own nipples, biting hard on his lip, “Let me just...get used to this sensation. It’s a bit odd. It burns.” 

Sherlock nods and moves to kiss John’s thigh before using his other hand to stroke John’s cock gently, coaxing it back to hardness, “It looked sad like that, growing flaccid.”

John giggles and the movement helps Sherlock’s fingers slip further inside him until Sherlock’s thick knuckles are the only barrier to them being joined completely. 

“Move them in and out,” John suggests with a groan, “just...stretch me a little.”

Sherlock whines low in his throat and feels his cock twitching back to semi-hardness at John’s words as he follows orders, creating a slow, sensual rhythm until John is wiggling on the high threadcount sheets in anticipation.

“Oh god,” John moans, one hand pinching his nipples whilst the other goes and tangles in his own short hair, “Now. Push them in.”

Sherlock hesitates for a split second before pushing in, his knuckles being promptly swallowed by John’s hole. Sherlock’s hand feels hot, sweat is pouring from Sherlock’s forehead as he tries to remain still whilst John gets used to the sensation.

“Yes,” John groans, his eyes wide and unfocussed as he looks down at Sherlock, “Oh god. Yes. That’s...I’m so full.”

Sherlock scissors his fingers, stretching John wider to allow more room for the inevitable penetration. John moans throughout the movements, precome dripping into his pubic hair as his legs twitch and bend, scrabbling at the sheets as his hips buck up and down each time Sherlock brushes against his prostate.

“Now. I’m ready,” John insists, he’s not entirely sure whether or not he  _ is _ fully ready, but he can’t wait another second before Sherlock’s inside him.

“Should I...” Sherlock gestures with his unoccupied hand, “pull out?”

“Yes. Slowly,” John says, bearing down to make it easier. He feels Sherlock’s hand slip out of him and he feels open and slick but also empty, already missing the fingers.

John watches Sherlock’s face as he stares entranced at his open and waiting hole. It makes his stomach flutter to be the cause of such a look on that face. He’s still watching as Sherlock shakes his head as though to clear it before he mutters one word.

“Condom,” Sherlock states.

John chuckles nervously before agreeing, “Probably best, at least the first time. Do you have any down here?”

Sherlock shakes his head but appears to be thinking.

John pushes himself onto his elbows, preparing to stand, “I have some upstairs in…” but he doesn’t get any further in the explanation before Sherlock is using a hand to John’s chest to keep John down while simultaneously propelling himself up.

“I’ll grab them,” he assures and is out the door.

“You don’t know where they are!” John yells after him fondly.

“Oh, please,” Sherlock scoffs just loud enough for the older man to hear him and is back in mere moments, box of condoms in hand and looking absurdly pleased with himself.

John rolls his eyes with a small shake of his head before reaching out to him, “Come here, then.”

The small flame of tender warmth at being wanted alights in his gut once more, and he hurries back to John with all the grace of an over-eager puppy.

There is a tangle of limbs and a slapping of skin as Sherlock positions himself between John’s legs again, this time the condom securely between his fingers as he attempts to tear the foil, only to be thwarted by his slippery fingers. Grumbling to himself, Sherlock moves to put the wrapper into his mouth to tear into it with his teeth before John is slapping his thigh and giving him a death glare, “What is the point in using a condom if you’re going to put a hole in it with your bloody teeth?” he huffs before holding out his hand demandingly, “Give it here.”

Sherlock looks on in challenge before capitulating and handing John the condom with a sarcastic flourish, which amuses John and causes the doctor to roll his eyes as he wipes the excess lube from it and onto the sheets before tearing it easily.

Awkwardness abounds as John wonders whether to hand the condom back to Sherlock or put it on the man himself. Deciding to be proactive, John leans up on his elbows and reaches to stroke Sherlock’s cock gently. Pinching the end of the condom, John rolls the sheath down Sherlock’s cock with practiced ease (although he’s never done it to another person, the mechanisms are the same) slicking up the condom with lube, and then lays back, fluffing up the pillows behind him and then reaching for Sherlock, pulling the younger man down to lay flush against him so they can have tender and gentle snogs whilst they prepare for this monumental moment. Sherlock may not care much about his virginity, but John does; he wants it to be perfect for the man who has saved his life on countless occasions.

John spreads his legs and then wraps them around the back of Sherlock’s calves, keeping their legs pressed together as his hand finds Sherlock’s cock and places it at his open and wet hole. 

“Whenever you’re ready you can…” John says, but is immediately stopped in his tracks by Sherlock pushing in with a deep and husky moan, his head moving to John’s neck to inhale his sweaty, sex scent, “Fuck. Fuck wait.”

Sherlock stiffens and lifts his head, looking down in a panic at John, his eyes flicking from side to side as he reads John’s face, “You’re hurting.”

“Yeah,” John admits around a grimace of pain, because it would be stupid to deny what Sherlock can see with his own eyes, “stings a bit.”

“Shall I...remove myself?” Sherlock asks, his arms trembling as he holds himself up above John’s face.

“No. No just...let me...” John moans, wiggling his hips slightly in an attempt to stop the ache before tensing his internal muscles and shimmying down with a gasp, “Ow you bugger.”

“I’ll stop. This is stupid. It was a mistake,” Sherlock says, intending to pull out, only to be stopped by John’s legs which are still holding him steady.

“No, it’s fine. It’s not so bad now,” John half-lies. 

“John...” Sherlock whispers, the agony of having to hold still only stopped by his concern for John.

“Okay. No, it’s fine…go in a little more. Slowly. As slow as you can,” John hums, biting his lip and putting one hand on Sherlock’s hip whilst the other slips between their bodies to stroke his own cock which has now seemed to shrivel inside himself, hiding away like a hibernating squirrel.

Sherlock huffs through his nose and slowly begins to slide himself in and out of John’s contracting hole, the feeling is exquisite, better than any drug or case he’s ever taken. John is hot, clenching and gripping at him as he slips further in, a millimetre at a time.

John’s hands grip tighter as the pain ebbs, grasping his hardening cock and surely bruising Sherlock’s hip at the same time. Sherlock gasps at the increased pressure, surprised by the wave of arousal that moves directly to his own cock, still trying to move as gently as possible inside of John.

“Sherlock,” John gasps, part moan and part call.

Sherlock finds that he needs to open his eyes to look at the exquisite man below him. He has no recollection of closing them in the first place. He searches John’s face: open and caring and awed and just a tiny glimpse of pain in there still.

“You remember that spot you found on accident with your fingers?” John asks coyly, hoping that the stimulation will make this experience perfect at last.

“Your prostate?” Sherlock asks with a wrinkled brow before understanding dawns, “Yes! Your prostate!” He exclaims gleefully.

John watches with a fond smile as Sherlock freezes all movement as he tries to work the calculation in his head. Sherlock pulls himself back before giving an experimental thrust back into John’s willing body. Both men are watching the other, so John merely grunts and shakes his head, letting Sherlock know that wasn’t quite it. Sherlock purses his lips with a small huff, recalculates, and tries again.

This time, John pants and briefly closes his eyes as he bites his bottom lip, “Closer,” he assures Sherlock when their eyes have locked again.

With a quick, determined nod of his head, Sherlock pulls back and aims once more. This time, Sherlock knows he’s found it because John’s back arches off the bed as he lets out a loud moan, his inner muscles squeezing Sherlock’s cock in such way that it’s almost too much for the detective to bear.

John huffs a laugh in wonder, falling back to the bed to smile up at Sherlock. He moves his right hand from Sherlock’s hip to the back of his neck, pulling him down for a passionate kiss, “You bloody genius,” he mutters against his lips, placing another kiss before continuing, “God, you’re wonderful.”

Sherlock’s hips stutter forward of their own accord as he moans out a, “Joooohn.”

“Yes. God, please, Sherlock!” John begs, all intentions of having a slow, sensual love-making session now blown wide open at the sensations. He needs it hard, fast, and passionate.

Sherlock’s hips judder into movement, making long thrusts as Sherlock’s sweat  _ drip, drip, drips  _ onto John’s torso. John is biting his lip, almost broken by the intensity of his need to be claimed by Sherlock. His legs wrap around the detective’s waist and it’s the perfect position for Sherlock’s blunt tip to pound against his prostate again and again, coaxing floods of precome out to drip along John’s stomach in thick rivers. 

“Sher...Sherlo...I can’t,” John’s whining, his voice high pitched and strained as his hands slip and grasp for the younger man’s shoulders, “I can’t hold on. I’m going to...going to...”

“John!” Sherlock gasps, eyes flying open to gaze at John in amazement as his orgasm hits him, spurred on by the twitching and grasping muscles of John’s insides. Sherlock makes a few more choking noises as his cock pulses inside the condom, leaving Sherlock feeling wrung out and strangely emotional as he smoothes back his damp curls with his forearm.

Pushing Sherlock up, John can finally reach for his cock, which hasn’t abated in its desperation. He’s red tipped and straining, hot to the touch and leaking almost worryingly compared to his usual dribbles. John reaches up, holding the back of Sherlock’s neck to pull him down so they can rest their foreheads together, sharing breath as John strokes his cock harder and faster, getting to the edge and then...

“Oh,” John moans out simply, his eyes rolling back as he comes hard, soaking his and Sherlock’s chests and stomachs with long arcs of ejaculate as he shudders and trembles under the detective.

“John,” Sherlock blinks, looking down between John’s face and still pulsing penis, “John…oh, John.”

“I’m alright,” John mumbles, taking a deep, hissed breath in and smiling, “I’m...I’m fine.”

“I could feel you,” Sherlock rambles, blinking continuously, “I could feel you coming, around my penis. You were tensing.”

“Yeah,” John laughs, “Internal muscles. That’s how orgasms work.”

“I know that,” Sherlock scoffs, rather haughtily for a man still buried inside his lover whilst wearing a sperm-filled condom, “I’m not an imbecile. I just meant that...I could _ feel  _ yours. It was like we were…”

“Connected,” John finishes, smiling warmly and then cupping Sherlock’s cheek with a wince as his rear starts to ache, “You need to pull out now, love, sorry.”

“Oh. Oh of course,” Sherlock says formally and looks a little lost for a moment.

“Hold the condom base, then pull out,” John instructs with a stroking of Sherlock’s cheekbone, “dispose of the condom in the bathroom bin.”

“Dispose?” Sherlock frowns, “Why would I want to do that?”

Nevertheless, Sherlock pulls out with only the briefest wince from John and then sits back on his heels. Sherlock’s cock is growing flaccid, the now (substantially) full condom at danger of slipping off and onto the bed.

“You can’t keep it,” John sighs affectionately, rubbing his face and grimacing at the smell of semen on his fingers, “What do you want to do? Keep it as a pet? Name it Bernard?”

Sherlock looks at John like he has gone clinically insane before shaking his head, “Experiment.”

John should really have seen that coming. He pushes himself to sitting while laughing, pulling Sherlock’s face to his for another kiss.

“Oh, I keep forgetting you’re a scientific genius,” he chides with a besotted smile.

Sherlock smiles as he rubs his nose softly against John’s, his stomach warming again, before whispering, “Yours.”

“Hmm?” John asks, frowning softly, “What was that?”

“I said yours. I’m  _ your _ scientific genius.” Sherlock blushes, obviously shy.

John takes a moment to gaze up at his best friend, flatmate, work colleague, and now lover. The man who had changed everything the moment they met in a lab which smelt so strongly of formaldehyde. He had never expected he could be here, loving Sherlock and feeling the love returned.

Fighting back tears, John can see Sherlock is excited to begin his experiment and rolls his eyes playfully. Kissing him once more before slapping Sherlock’s arse lightly, John sighs, “Alright, off you go before the sample is unusable and we have to make another one.”

  
Sherlock stands with a smile, shimmies back into his pajama bottoms, and make his way to his lab, all while thinking that John’s idea holds a lot of merit.

**Author's Note:**

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